(From almost five years ago.)

.
I do not oft look up at the sky anymore,

my eyes are stuck, set for a shallow depth-of-field;

if only such lenses allowed one to soar

above the drab signposts that refuse to yield

any hope that this gray-colored victory-chore

of adults would expire; so goes the appeal

of a child, whom I knew when my heart did not hoard

a dull animal pressure to labor for weal;

ever mine are the options of cursed Iscariot

squand’ring the Light, never being its Chariot.